"And though I chose to be clean, though I may not have known who I was going to become, a discordant and primal wail came up from within me in early sobriety: I used to be a fucking legend!" -Sacha Z. Scoblic

145 days sober The idea hits me on—well, okay, it doesn’t hit me, really. It’s not my idea, and I refuse to take any sort of responsibility for it. The idea hits Jamie on Super Bowl Sunday, and he is quick to relay it to me. We’re curled up on his couch under a fluffy white blanket, having spent the majority of the day carefully testing my theory that I should still be able to smoke pot without getting cravings for any other kind of drug. So far, the theory is a success; we had decided that it would make sense for me to smoke alone at first, just so that Jamie could be straight in case I started to feel off. I’d packed a bowl and taken maybe half a dozen hits over the course of about ten minutes, and then we had waited to see if I’d have some sort of meltdown. I didn’t. Which was fantastic, because for the past four years, Jamie and I have had our own Super Bowl tradition of getting unbelievably stoned, eating a dozen cupcakes each, and then making out while we watch the Puppy Bowl on Animal Planet. “I have the best idea,” he whispers suddenly. I slit one eye to look at him; he’s staring past me, gaze focused on the television, which is so fucking rude, because he’s supposed to be focusing on kissing me back. I look back at the screen. A Golden Retriever puppy is chewing on a stuffed squirrel. A fat little bulldog puppy waddles over and steps right on his face. I press my mouth against Jamie’s neck to stifle my laughter. He tugs insistently on my hair. “Garen, I have the best idea.” “So do I,” I say in a sing-song voice, sneaking the tips of my fingers into the waistband of his pants. He catches my wrist and warns, “Hey, you stop that right now. I told you, we need to keep everything above the waist, or Rachael will have my balls. She’s already gotten in the habit of whining about how much more time I spend with you than with her.” “Ugh. The people you date always end up whining about that. It’s obnoxious, you should just stay single forever.” I shove my hand up his shirt instead and tweak one of his nipples. He tries to shove me off the couch, but only after he arches into the touch, so I’m counting that as a win. He seems to have already forgotten his brilliant idea, so I sit back a little and prompt, “And the best idea is what, exactly? That we pack another bowl? Because, yes, that.” “Yes, that,” Jamie agrees, sitting up and reaching for the plastic baggie of weed on the coffee table. “But that wasn’t my idea. Listen, Garen—you should get a dog.” I look up at the screen again. The camera is focused on a tiny ball of fluff that might be a Pomeranian. I frown; that seems like cheating, somehow. She’s the same size as all the other puppies, but most of them are going to grow up to be five times her size, so she must be older than they are now, and that’s just not fair. “Well, if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t get a Pomeranian,” I say. “Cheating little rat. No sense of sportsmanship, look at that thing. I hope it loses. Well—does anyone really lose the Puppy Bowl?” “I imagine I’ll feel very much like a loser in a few hours, when I realize that I spent my entire afternoon shame-eating half the stock of Sprinkles Cupcakes and watching a bunch of puppies play in a box.” Despite his words, he stops packing the bowl, reaches for another cupcake, and repeats, “You should get a dog.” I smack the cupcake out of his hand and back into the box. He makes a wounded noise, but I elbow him in the ribs and say, “Oh my god, eat from your own box, you fucking idiot. That one was mine.” “You are the worst person,” he groans. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to share?” “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to not eat shit you’re allergic to?” I demand. “Oh wait, yes. Your mom taught you that when you were like, four. The ones with the pink frosting are strawberry, so you can’t have any. Because I’m not taking you to the ER if you go into anaphylactic shock.” Jamie glares at me and selects one of his own cinnamon-sugar cupcakes. I grin as he carefully peels off the wrapper, shoves the entire cupcake into his mouth, and then delicately brushes the crumbs off his hands and into the box, like that makes what he just did any less disgusting. Whenever we smoke together, Jamie’s lovely Southern manners are the first thing to go; his pants are usually second. Then, because he can’t stop harping on this, he says for a third time, “You should get a dog. This bakery makes cupcakes for dogs.” “Any cupcake is a cupcake for a dog,” I point out. “You just take the cupcake, and then you like… you know, feed it to a dog.” “I’m pretty sure they tend to throw up, if you do that,” Jamie says skeptically. “These cupcakes, the ones this bakery makes—they don’t have sugar, I suppose? I saw a sign this morning. It said the frosting is made out of yogurt instead. But I don’t think they’re made out of dog food, so I bet a human could eat them, too.” I let my head roll back and to the side so that I can look at him. “Sometimes you’re a real fatass, you know that?” He hums his agreement and breaks off a piece of a chocolate marshmallow cupcake from his box. For a few minutes, we watch the puppies play. An Akita trips and falls into the water dish, and we both chuckle. When the kitten cheerleaders appear on screen for the halftime show, I turn back to Jamie and say, “How mad would Travis be, do you think?” He’s still staring at the screen, but after a minute of silence, he turns his eyes slowly towards me. “About what? The kitten half-time show?” I stare at him. He stares back. Another minute passes, and then he shrugs, biting down on his lip like he’s trying to stop himself from laughing. “I don’t know. Does he have something against kittens?” “You’re—I’m confiscating this, okay?” I say, sliding the pipe to the other end of the coffee table, where his stoned ass can’t reach it. “I meant, how mad would Travis be if I got a dog?” “Well, when I suggested it, I meant that you should talk to him about it and see if he’d like it, too. Y’all are roommates, so something like that should be a mutual decision. Not something you just spring on him.” The camera zooms in on a basset hound that doesn’t seem to be doing much of anything, other than carefully nosing a tennis ball back and forth in a corner by himself. My heart melts a little bit. “No, fuck that. ‘Cause like, I know Travis. He’ll be all boring and practical about it, like, ‘no, Garen, we only just moved here, it’s too early to get a dog.’ Or, ‘you’ve never had a pet before, you wouldn’t know how to take care of it.’ But I’d totally take care of it, you know? I’d take it to the vet for check-ups, and I’d feed it, and I’d play with it in the backyard and take it for walks and stuff. It would totally be my bro. And I could adopt one from a shelter, instead of getting one from a breeder, because like, then I’d be giving a good home to a dog in need. Like Sarah McLachlan is always telling me to. And if I just kinda show up with a dog and shove it at him, he won’t make me take it back. He’ll be super pissed, but he’ll let me keep it, and he’ll totally learn to love it after a couple of days. It’s pretty much the method I used to get him to like me.” “Let the record show that I am firmly against the idea of you getting a dog without talking to your roommate first,” Jamie says, thumbing at the screen of his iPhone. “That being said… I’m currently looking at the website of an independently-owned pet store that mostly sells supplies, but also runs some sort of pet rescue service for people who’d like to adopt dogs instead of buying from a breeder. They’re on 85th, which is about seven blocks that way.” He points towards the kitchen. “That’s so close,” I whisper. “Can we go? I want to go. Jamie, this was your idea, now you have to let me go. And you should get one, too. Then our dogs can be friends. Can you even have pets in this building?” He shrugs. “Yes, but only if I’m willing to pay a truly astonishing pet fee. Which I am most assuredly not. Anyway, I’m fairly confident in saying that we are much too stoned to be making this decision right now,” he announces. “How ‘bout I call the shop to see what dogs they have there now, and you call your roommate to tell him about this horrible idea of ours? Then, we can maybe take a nap, sleep off some of the high. Shower, so that we don’t smell like an impending drug conviction. And then we can go look at dogs. Alright?” I nod. He wanders towards the kitchen to make his call, and I… sort of make my call. That is to say, I dial Travis’ number, and when he picks up, I blurt out, “I’madoptingadogandyoucan’tstopme,” freak out, and hang up on him. I hear Jamie’s voice falter. When I peek over the back of the couch, he’s looking at me like he’s very embarrassed for me. I shrug. My phone vibrates on my lap, and I shoot it a panicked look. “I’m sorry, can you hold on for just a moment, please?” Jamie says pleasantly into his phone. He covers the mouthpiece and hisses, “For Christ’s sake, Garen, can we at least pretend you’re an adult? Pick up the fucking phone!” He returns to his own call. I sigh and answer my phone. “Hi.” “Hi,” Travis says, and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. “You wanna run that by me again?” “No,” I say, and he doesn’t try to hold back his laughter anymore. When he’s quiet again, I say, “Jamie and I are watching the Puppy Bowl. There are so many cute dogs, Travis, oh my god. And they keep showing these commercials about pet adoption, and I want… that. I want to adopt a dog. And Jamie found this place that does like, rescue stuff? These dogs need homes, Travis. They need someone to save them, Travis.” “Stop saying my name so much,” Travis says. “And uh, just because they need homes doesn’t mean that they need to have a home with us. Pets are a big responsibility, and neither of us has had a dog before. Plus, you’re in school all day, and I leave the house at one for work and class, so the dog would be left alone for about five hours every afternoon anyway.” “Travis Daniel McCall, these dogs are lonely and sad and homeless,” I say fiercely. “And this time last year, so was I. Sort of. So I know how much it sucks, okay? Like, they just want someone to love them and play with them and be there for them, and that could totally be us.” There’s a noise that sounds very much like Travis has let his forehead thunk down onto our kitchen table. “Really, G? You’re playing the ‘my dad kicked me out of the house and I became a drug addict because I was so sad and lonely’ card? Are you trying to convince me that some German Shepherd is going to start shooting heroin if I don’t let you adopt it?” “Pets can help people cope with their depression,” I say, having no idea if I’m pulling this out of my ass or not. I think I remember hearing someone say something to this effect during one of my group therapy sessions last fall, so why not? “It’s because they’re so friendly and affectionate and stuff. They just wanna love all over people and make friends. They, like—wouldn’t that be awesome, though? If you could come home every night, and there’d be someone there who just wanted to climb all over you and lick your face and have you pet it?” “I already have someone who does that,” Travis says dryly. “Fuck off,” I say, wriggling down into the blanket. “I think it’s a good idea. I think you’d be happier if there was someone to pick up on your mood and shower you with affection and make sure you’re okay, and I think I’d be happier if I had an awesome buddy to go play with in the yard, and I think the dog would be happier living with us than in a store. Come on. It’s a good idea. You know it’s a good idea.” He heaves a huge sigh, like I am the actual fucking worst. I prop my phone between my ear and shoulder so that I can cross my fingers for luck. Finally, after what feels like five minutes, he says, “Fine. We can get a dog.” My heart jumps, but he hastens to add, “You have to make sure it’s one that’s compatible with us, though, okay? We don’t know anything about training an animal, so it needs to already be housebroken. It can’t be vicious. And our neighbors are like, right there, so try to find one that doesn’t bark all the time, because I don’t want them to call the cops with noise complaints. And don’t get some tiny little princess dog that looks like a fucking rat, either. Even if this means you have to wait and get it some other day. Don’t just pick out a random dog because you want one right now, okay? Get a dog that’s good for us.” I’m pretty sure that when he says us, he means us as roommates, or our house, but it feels like a different sort of us. I bury my face in the blanket. “Are you sure? You have to be positive you’re cool with this, dude, because I swear to god, I’m going to go look at dogs tonight, and I’m probably going to come home with one. So you need to be sure.” “I’m sure, you idiot,” he says. “Let’s get a huge pitbull and name it Princess Jellybean,” I whisper. “Let’s do literally anything but that.” He hangs up before I can argue for Princess Jellybean. It ends up being an irrelevant conversation anyway, because when Jamie and I get to the pet shop later that night, Brian, the enthusiastic owner, tells us that all of their current rescues already have names. “There are currently thirteen animals available for adoption. All of our dogs are rescues between the ages of two—that’s Omelette—and fourteen—that’s Sage,” he says, bouncing a little in place, like he’s as excited about me getting a dog as I am. Impossible; no one is as excited as I am right now. “They’re all fixed and up-to-date on their shots. Most of ‘em are mixed breeds, and some of them have health problems, but nothing that can’t be handled by a caring owner.” “I’m sure they’re all wonderful in their own way,” I say generously, and Brian beams at me. “What kind of health problems?” Jamie asks, because he’s a fun-sucker. Brian shrugs. “Various things. Sage has bad hips, Munchkin has some pretty heavy vision problems, Snowflake has sensitive skin that sometimes results in a rash, if the right dog shampoo isn’t used on her. I can give you a full report on any dog you want to know more about, but I think we’d better start with a couple questions, just so I have a better idea of what you’re looking for.” His “couple questions” feel a lot more like an interrogation. He seems wary about this being my first pet, but thrilled that I live in a house with a decently-sized, fenced-in backyard. I tell him all about the house schedule—how the dog would be with Travis for the entire morning, but alone for four and a half hours until I get home from school—and reassure him that I’m a pretty typical eighteen-year-old dude, so it’s not like I have anything delicate that the dog could knock over and break. I admit that I don’t know anyone in the area who owns any dogs that mine could socialize with, but that I’d be totally willing to take it to the park or whatever. He starts to ask whether I’d prefer a smaller, calmer breed or a bigger, high-energy one, but Jamie laughs over the end of his sentence; for the past five minutes, I’ve been fidgeting with a tennis ball I found on the counter, tossing it back and forth between my hands, periodically bouncing it on the floor. I flash Brian a lopsided, sheepish smile. “The thing is, I’m sort of a spazz? Like, my attention span isn’t the greatest, and I can’t really sit still.” “If he could find a way to split himself in half, he could be his own puppy,” Jamie agrees. “So, you want something you can really play with,” Brian clarifies. “Lots of energy, willing to chase toys, likes to play games. Maybe a breed you could take on a run, or to a dog park?” I nod quickly. “Alright! Well, like I said, we’ve got thirteen dogs here, but there are maybe four with health problems that limit their mobility. Then, we’ve got another three who are getting pretty up there, age-wise, so they won’t be able to play around as much as you seem to want. Two of our high-energy dogs are small breeds. One’s a mix between a Yorkie and a Jack Russell, and the other’s a mix between a Chihuahua—” “Nope,” I say, shaking my head emphatically from side to side. “Nope, I don’t want either of those. I’m on strict orders from my roommate not to bring home anything that could ever be described as ‘rat-like’ or ‘princess-y.’” Brian grimaces. “Yeah, Cocoa Puff is a sweetheart, but he’s definitely pretty princess-like. Well, why don’t I bring you both back where we keep our dogs, and you can meet some that might be compatible with you?” I practically dive into the back room after him, and holy shitcakes, it’s like stepping into dog heaven. There are crates all along the back wall, and the moment we’ve stepped into the room, each and every one of the dogs loses their shit, barking and yipping and wagging their tails. I have to clamp a hand over my mouth to stop myself from beaming like a child, but Jamie must see me move, because he laughs and pinches at my side. I don’t even care enough to pinch back, because I’m about to get a doggie. No amount of mockery can ruin the awesomeness of that. Brian grabs a pad of neon orange sticky notes from the table near the door and strides up to the crates, marking four of the crates with notes. “These are the dogs I think might be a good fit for you. Bailey, Lulu, Rocco, and Omelette.” “Awesome, I’ll take them all,” I decide, words muffled a little by the hand I’ve still got over my mouth. Jamie stomps on my foot, even though he knows I can’t feel it through my boot. I drop my hand and clear my throat, trying for a more adult response. “I mean, tell me about them.” The first dog, Bailey, is a gigantic monster of a mutt, probably waist-high on me. Brian tells me that she has some springtime allergies, so she needs to be bathed more frequently in the warmer months, just to keep pollen and dust and whatever out of her fur. Her tongue is lolling out of her mouth in a wide, stupid smile. After checking with Brian to be sure I’m not going to get bitten for doing so, I slip the tips of my fingers into the cage. Bailey gives them an enthusiastic lick, then beats her tail back and forth so enthusiastically that the whole crate shakes. Lulu, the Retriever-Lab mix, is definitely the most sedate of the four dogs. She wags her tail when I come closer to her crate, but other than that, I don’t get much of a reaction out of her. When I hook my fingers through the cage, just to see if she’ll move, she sniffs at them, then basically decides she doesn’t give a fuck, and goes back to chewing on the stuffed chicken in her cage. “Wow, she couldn’t be less impressed with you if she tried,” Jamie observes. “Yeah, I can see that,” I say, frowning. Brian laughs. “So, not for you?” I shake my head. I get enough apathy from the humans I know; I don’t need it from my own dog, too. The next dog, Rocco, is a beautiful Doberman-Shepherd mix. He’s the only one of the dogs who’s sitting, but when I step closer, he barks in what I’m choosing to interpret as a greeting. I grin, and he barks again, like he’s trying to prove that he knows what smiles mean. He stands up, turns in a little circle, and sits down again. I laugh. “Is he like, showing off his skills? Proving that he knows how to sit?” “Might be,” Brian chuckles. “Rocco’s one of our better trained rescues. I don’t imagine he’ll be here long—somebody’s bound to snatch him up within the next few weeks. His previous owners only gave him up because they needed to move into a new building, and their landlord wouldn’t allow pets.” “Should’ve chosen a different building,” I grumble. “This dog is rad.” Brian opens his mouth to say something, but then something else catches his attention, and he cuts himself off with a sharp, “Omelette, no.” I turn to find Omelette, the last dog, frozen in place with one of his paws jammed through the wire of his crate. He’s batting at the latch, like he thinks he’s going to be able to make a break for freedom, and it’s probably the only time I’ve ever seen a dog look shifty, like he was kind of hoping we’d be too distracted by Rocco to notice what he was doing. “No,” Brian repeats more firmly. “Dude, it’s not like he can get himself out,” I say. “Actually, he—” The crate latch catches under claws, and then the door swings wide open. Omelette gives himself a cheerful bark of congratulations and takes half a step out of the crate before doubling back to grab the plush, bone-shaped toy out of the corner. He trots over to us, wagging his long, fluffy tail, but seems totally unwilling to lick my hand, if it means dropping his toy. Brian sighs and finishes, “He can. Break out, that is. So, yes, this is Omelette. He’s an Australian Shepherd, Siberian Husky mix.” “What’s wrong with him?” I say, dropping to my knees so that I can give a proper hello to the dog. He immediately drops the toy—and a heavy dose of slobber—on my knee, because apparently he has decided that licking my face is a better use of his time than playing with his squeaky bone. I duck away from his tongue but don’t stop petting him. His fur is so soft, a long, silky coat in shades of black and tan, with splotches of bright white over his chest, face, and the tops of his paws. His eyes are a bright, icy shade of blue, and his face is more wolf-like than any of the other dogs here, but it’s pretty hard to take him seriously, because he’s got huge ears that seem to be bursting out of the top of his head like a wingnut. I look back up at Brian and add, “I mean, there’s got to be something wrong with him, right? Otherwise, why wouldn’t his last owners have wanted to keep him?” Brian gestures towards the crate. “Well, as you can see, he’s a bit of a handful. Extremely high-energy, needs almost constant attention. He’s very intelligent, but like most intelligent dogs, he has a tendency to get himself into trouble if he doesn’t get proper exercise and stimulation. His previous owners couldn’t handle having a dog who’s so high-mainten—” “I want him,” I interrupt. Omelette is once more engaged with the squeaky bone; I pluck it out of his mouth, wiggle it a little, and toss it a few feet away. He scrambles after it so frantically that he trips over his own too-big paws and nearly falls on his face, but manages to right himself and bolt after the toy. He grabs it, shakes it, and runs back to me, but obviously the concept of fetch is lost on him, because he won’t give it back. I try to look offended, and he gives me a look that I’m convinced means, whatever, you’re the asshole who threw it in the first place, why the fuck would I give it back to you? “Did you hear that pitch?” Jamie asks. “Did you?” I challenge. “He’s a spazzy attention-whore who gets into trouble all the time and broke out of his own cage. He’s me in dog form, dude. My life won’t be complete without this dog in it.” I clasp Omelette’s furry, wolfish face between my palms and whisper, “You are my spirit animal.” He lunges forward and licks a huge sloppy stripe up the side of my face. “Are there any health issues that would require concern?” Jamie asks. When I glance up, his eyes are flickering back and forth between Brian and Rocco. I think he’s sort of hoping I’ll load the jailbreaking dog back into his cage and go with the better-trained one who knows how to sit still. “Not right now, but I have to warn you, there’s a decent chance of him developing some vision problems as he gets older. It’s a fairly common issue for Huskies and Aussies alike, especially considering his coloring,” Brian admits. I smooth back the fur on Omelette’s face and say, “Well, he’s still young. I can worry about that later, if it happens. Right now, he’s perfect.” All of my dog-adopting fantasies involve throwing down some cash and waltzing off into the sunset with my new bro, quick as can be. Turns out? Not how it works. After that, Brian brings me back out front to fill out a fuckload of paperwork. I have to fill out like, four different forms, and that’s not even factoring in the actual New York State dog license I have to file for online. Then I have to hang out and listen to what feels like a lecture about how to care for a dog; most of it is common sense, like, if he’s whining at the door, he has to go out, or make sure you check his water dish frequently so that he doesn’t die of thirst. I can’t help but wonder what kind of morons must be trying to adopt dogs, if “feed it so it doesn’t die” is considered advanced care of an animal. While I’m doing the awful, boring part, Jamie wanders through the store, doing the fun stuff, like picking out toys and collars and leashes. When Brian pops back into the storeroom to get yet another goddamn form for me, I stage-whisper to Jamie, “There are some choke-chains over here, if maybe you wanna get one for yourself. You know, bring it to New Haven, see if Ben wants to get a little weird with you.” Jamie comes back over to kick me in the shin, and Omelette barks. I beam down at my little protector, and Jamie just rolls his eyes, dumping an armful of supplies on the counter next to me. Between the basics he’s already picked out, the food I’ll need to get a couple bags of, and the adoption fees, this whole event is going to cost me way more money than I’d expected. That’s okay, though—Omelette is completely worth it. It feels like we’ve been there for hours by the time Brian finally clips Omelette’s new red collar into place, hooks his leash onto it, and passes him off to me. “Well, seems like you’re all set! If you’ve got any questions or concerns in the coming days, don’t hesitate to call here, or even bring Omelette by.” “Thank you,” I say, maybe a bit too seriously. “Really, you’ve been awesome. Thank you.” Once outside, Jamie loads all of the supplies into the trunk of his Cadillac, but makes a noise like he’s absolutely dying when we reach the part where Omelette is supposed to actually get into the car. I laugh and ask, “Dude, do you want me to just walk back to the apartment? It’s only a couple blocks. Honestly, I’ll probably beat you there, in city traffic. I can go right to the garage, chill by my car so we can move all the stuff into my trunk.” “No, it’s fine,” he sighs. I open my mouth to protest, but it’s too late; he pops open the door and pats the backseat, saying, “Come on, dog.” “Omelette,” I correct. “Omelette,” Jamie agrees. Omelette leaps up into the car and sits down, his tail thumping rhythmically against the leather seat. Jamie goes to close the door after him, but I catch it and slip in after the dog. My best friend gives me a look like he’s judging every life choice I’ve ever made. “What?” I say defensively. “I don’t know how long it’s been since he’s ridden in a car. I can sit shotgun if you really want me to, but he might get scared, and if I’m not here to show some sort of solidarity, he might piss all over your—” “Jesus crucified Christ, stay back there with him,” Jamie groans, slamming the car door shut on my laughter.

150 days sober Despite everyone’s warnings, life without Omelette gives way to life with Omelette pretty seamlessly. Travis approves whole-heartedly of my choice of pet—mostly because I leave out the part of the story where he broke out of his own crate—but actually turns out to be a way less responsible pet owner than I am. For the first few days, I make a performance of measuring out Omelette’s food into the dish, taking him out into the backyard every three hours so he won’t piss on the carpet, and trying to be stern with him when he chews on something he shouldn’t. Travis does exactly the opposite. For one thing, he dumps heaps of food into Omelette’s bowl every time it looks even a little bit empty. “Excuse me for not wanting our dog to starve!” he protests when I point this out. “He’s not going to starve, dude. You’re going to make him obese, and he’s going to die of heart failure before he even turns ten—oh my god, stop that,” I hiss, and Travis freezes in the act of offering Omelette the last bite of his sandwich. Omelette doesn’t freeze; he just darts forward and swallows the bite whole, licking a smudge of mayonnaise off Travis’ palm when he’s done. There’s also the issue of Travis refusing to grasp the concept of “appropriate toys” versus “inappropriate toys.” We haven’t even had Omelette a week when I find the two of them in the backyard, playing fetch. At first, I’m going to applaud Travis on getting Omelette to actually give up the toy when he brings it back to where he’s sitting on the back porch, but then I realize that Travis is only staying on the porch because he’s half-barefoot. “I couldn’t find his squeaky duck,” he says defensively. “That’s his favorite thing to fetch.” I contemplate bashing my head in against the porch railing. “So, rather than go find his second-favorite thing, you just… kinda took off your sneaker and pitched it across the yard?” “My sneaker is his second-favorite thing to fetch.” Other than that, things are going pretty well. I find myself bolting home to check on the dog pretty much every day after MLEP, and my antisocial tendencies don’t really seem to bother anyone. Except today, apparently. Today is very, very different. Approximately thirteen seconds after I sit down at lunch, Javi turns to me and announces, “You’re hanging out with us tonight.” I blink at him. “I’m what?” “Hanging out with us—” a gesture towards the rest of the people at the table, “—tonight. You’ve been in the squad for a month now, and you still haven’t come out to party with us, and you know something, man? We’re starting to take it personally.” “I’m not,” Declan offers. I roll my eyes. “That’s because I’m pretty sure you hate me, dude.” The corners of his mouth quirk into a very small smile, and he shrugs. “Not true. I neither like nor dislike you. You haven’t made much of an impression on me, to be honest.” “Yeah, but that’s just Dec being a douche, because you’ve made one on the rest of us,” Steven says. “You’ve made one on like, PMA history. By the time we all showed up for freshman year, you were already like, the coolest fucking guy this school had ever seen, and you were still only a sophomore. And, you know, you weren’t in our grade, and you already had your group you’d hang out with, so none of us ever got a chance to get to know you. We just had to hear the stories about the cool shit you did. Then you were here for the first month of our junior year, and bam, you completely disappear. Now you’re back, and you’re not just in our grade, you’re in our squad, and that’s awesome, and we wanna fuckin’ party with you, dude.” My eyebrows have been climbing steadily up my forehead the longer he talks. Now, I find myself unable to come up with anything beyond, “Steve… bro, I’m flattered, really, but I don’t like you like that.” Taylor snorts. Steven elbows him hard in the side and groans, “I’m not trying to hit on you, man—” “Kinda sounded like it,” Sam says skeptically. “Should we all move our legs back to give you more room when you crawl under the table together?” Charlie suggests. I scoff. “Bullshit. The lab tables in the science wing are the only ones that are big enough to fuck around under.” “Are you planning to offer him a demonstration during our next chem lab?” Declan asks with that same, barely-there smile. He’s talking to me, but his eyes are fixed on the salt shaker in the center of the table. When I don’t reply at once, his gaze slowly shifts to my face. “Going two-for-two on Walczyk brothers?” Charlie delivers a violent kick to his leg under the table, but Declan doesn’t even blink, and I can’t look away. My stomach has lurched, and all I want to know is how much of the story he’s aware of. I mean, for fuck’s sake, how much is Charlie even aware of? It’s not really the kind of thing I can talk about right now, and even if I could get one of them alone to ask, I’m not sure I’d be able to stomach the answer. Oblivious to any tension, Javi smacks my shoulder and repeats his instruction, “You need to hang out with us, alright? I mean, you talk to us during school just fine, so it’s not like you’re trying to blow us off permanently. I don’t get why you won’t just like, chill.” I’m still too on-edge from Declan’s comment. I open my mouth to find some casual way of blowing them off, but what comes out instead is, “Because hanging out with me isn’t like you all think it’s going to be. I’m not like I used to be, when you guys would hear the stories about me.” “How so?” Taylor says doubtfully. “I’m sober now,” I say. “Yeah, dude, it’s fucking noon, we’re all sober,” Sam says. He pauses, glances across the table, snorts. “Well, not too sure Steven is, but the rest of us—” “No, dumbass,” I say, rolling my eyes and digging into the outer pocket of my backpack for my car keys so that I can flash the orange, green and red sobriety key tags to the table. “I mean, I’m sober. Five months, next Tuesday. I spent last summer in rehab. I don’t—I mean, I still go out, to clubs or shows or whatever, but I can’t drink, and I can’t use, and I can’t party like I used to, so if that’s why you guys keep asking me to come out—’cause you want to see the infamous Garen Anderson shitshow—it’s not happening.” And there it is. My entire reputation, the whole badass image I spent years trying to perfect, is gone in an instant. Now, everyone here knows exactly what a pathetic, fucked-up addict I am, just like everyone at Lakewood knew when I started back there in the fall. There hasn’t been a reaction at the table yet, but I know there’s about to be—there must be—so I cut my losses, shoving my keys back into the pocket, shouldering my backpack, and striding out of the dining hall before any of them can say a word. I hide out in the library for the rest of lunch, as well as all of AP Government, so that Taylor can’t try to talk to me during class. None of my squadmates are in the military history course I’m supposed to be taking to make up for missing the fall semester of MLEP, so I actually bother to attend that. I debate bailing on that night’s MLEP—Omelette would be thrilled if I came home two and a half hours early—but part of me is a little terrified that Sergeant Smitth might hunt me down and drag me back. Instead of wandering around, taking my time, maybe swinging by my car to drop off my backpack, I go straight to the classroom. Maybe if I’m the first one there, I can just set myself up in the back corner, and no one will make it weird. Maybe some of the guys who were sitting at the other tables during lunch haven’t heard yet, and might still talk to me. Maybe Ryan Marten will be too blinded by lust to give a shit about how badly I’ve fucked up my life before now. But of course, I’ve only been sitting there, staring down at my Blackberry, for about two minutes before the chair next to me slides out and someone sits down in it. I don’t even need to look up to know that it’s Declan—he always takes up as much room as possible when he sits, splaying his legs apart like he’s daring every single person in the room to stare straight at his crotch. I’m usually more than willing to take a surreptitious glance or two—or, you know, twelve, and okay, they’re not really that surreptitious, and sometimes I’m pretty sure he catches me looking and just spreads his legs wider to put on a show for me—but right now, I’m not in the mood to play “give the straight boy an ego boost.” Right now, I’m in the mood to be left the fuck alone. I open my mouth to point this out, but Declan cuts me off with, “We’re not going to a bar tonight. We’re meeting some of the girls from Ward and going to that hookah lounge off I-87. Javi’s girlfriend, Vanessa likes their tabbouleh, and Sam likes the hot belly-dancer they have on Friday nights. You’ve been there before, right?” It’s the most he’s ever said to me at once, and I’m half-convinced it’s not really happening. But I used to go to that hookah lounge all the time, and it’s only ten or fifteen minutes from my house now. I nod without speaking. “Shisha is just flavored tobacco—we both know you can’t get high off of it, despite what I’m sure some of the dumber Ward girls are going to try to convince everyone tonight. Now, personally, I can’t stand half the people in this school without some sort of controlled substance in my system, so you can bet your ass I’ll have a pocketful of narcotics and a flask stuffed down the side of my boot. But Taylor and Javi are both driving, so neither of them will be bringing anything. I’m sure one or two of the Ward girls will stay sober. It wouldn’t be just you.” Finally, I have to look up. He’s watching me in that unblinking, unnerving way of his. I clear my throat and say, “Why are you suddenly acting like you give a shit about whether or not I hang out with you guys?” “What did you go to rehab for?” he asks, instead of answering. I snort. “Okay, go fuck yourself,” I say. One of his eyebrows twitches upward, and I shake my head. “I’ve been here for what, five weeks? This is the first time you’ve been anything other than apathetic towards me, so forgive me if I’m not planning to spew out all the details of the most private aspect of my life. The rest of the guys in the squad seem to like you—I know Javi and Charlie do, at least—and from what I hear, you’ve nailed every one of the hot chicks over at Ward, which makes sense, considering you are fine as hell. So, I get it, I get that you’re like, the leader of the pack, I guess.” “Am I?” he says mildly, and I have to roll my eyes. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I know your game, dude, because I spent my first three years at Patton playing this game. If you wanna fuck with people, go ahead. If you get off on finding out everybody’s dirty little secrets and holding them in reserve until it suits you to set that bomb off, awesome. Have fun with that, ‘cause I sure as shit used to. And look, I’m not trying to take your fuckin’ place around here. I’m not trying to steal your friends, or your reputation, or your spot at the head of the squad. But you’re kidding yourself if you think I’m going to let you play me.” Declan tips his chair back onto its hind legs and laces his fingers together behind his head. “See, this is the problem between the two of us. This is why I haven’t tried to be friends with you.” “Because I think you like to fuck with people’s heads?” The grin he flashes me then is dangerous and secretive and nothing at all like the bland half-smirks I’ve been catching for weeks. “Are you kidding me? I love to fuck with people’s heads. But if you realize that I’m doing it, then it’s not going to work on you, and that isn’t going to be fun for me.” “I’m sure I could find another way to be fun for you,” I say without thinking. His eyebrow quirks up again, but the sound of the classroom door opening spares me from the awkwardness of his rejection. Steven, Javi, and Sam only take a few steps into the classroom before they all freeze up a little bit, eying Declan and me warily. A beat passes, and Sam says, too casually to really be casual, “Hey, guys. What’s up?” “Garen’s coming to hookah with us tonight,” Declan announces, despite the fact that I’ve agreed to no such thing. He looks at me and adds, almost as an afterthought, “Text Javi your address. We’ll pick you up at ten thirty.” But despite that instruction, he’s not the one who rings the doorbell at ten thirty, and I’m not the one who answers it. Omelette immediately starts barking his head off, and I’m still in my bedroom, so I think Travis—who’s only been home from school for maybe an hour—mostly just opens to door so he’ll shut up. Even from my room, I can hear Sam’s voice say, “Hey. I’m Sam, I go to school with Garen. Are you his uh, roommate?” “Yeah. Travis. Garen’s up—” “Garen’s right here,” I say, jogging down the stairs. “Hang on a second, I just need to find my boots.” “They’re by the sliding door in the living room,” Travis says. To Sam, he adds, “You can come in, if you’d like.” “Thanks,” Sam says, stepping into the house. The second he’s crossed the threshold, Omelette rears up to paw at him, trying to lick his face. Sam chuckles. “Hey, bud. Who are you?” I jam my feet into my boots and drop onto the couch to tie them. “That’s our dog, Omelette.” “Both of yours?” Sam waves a hand back and forth between me and Travis, who has resumed his own place on the couch next to me, where he’s working on his homework. I roll my eyes. “Yes, both of ours. We’re writing a children’s book about what a progressive household we have. It’s called Omelette Has Two Owners. Now shut the fuck up, let’s go.” I grab my wallet off the coffee table and tug one of the strings of Travis’ hoodie as I move past him. “I’ll be back later. Have fun with your homework.” “Have fun smoking,” he says. There is a pointedly unspoken addition of even though you said you would quit. Rather than respond to that, I shrug into my leather jacket and shove Sam towards the door. Taylor’s Civic is parked at the curb, and he’s grinning at me from the driver’s seat. Charlie is riding shotgun, offering me a stone-faced nod. I slip into the backseat with Sam and say, “Hey. The others meeting us there?” Taylor nods. “Javi, Dec, and Steven headed over to Ward earlier. I think some of the girls are riding with them—Vanessa and Kaitlyn, probably. The rest of the girls are gonna take their own cars.” I give a vague nod of acknowledgment, wondering if I might know any of the girls there tonight. Jamie made his way through a pretty big portion of the class below us, so I wouldn’t be surprised if at least one of his exes was present. “So, your roommate seems pretty chill,” Sam says after a few minutes of relaxed silence. “Does he go to school around here?” “Travis? Nah, he’s a freshman in college. Goes to Columbia, over in the city,” I say. “But yeah, he’s aweso—” “Is that the same Travis who you were living with when you were dating my brother?” Charlie asks suddenly. I’m so thrown by the question that, for a moment, I don’t know what to say. Interpreting my silence as a cue to keep talking, he turns around in his seat to face me. “Last spring, I mean. Not the first time.” “Um. Yeah. Trav and I were living together for part of last year,” I say carefully. “But you’re not a couple,” Charlie clarifies. My hands feel cold, like my blood isn’t quite making it to my extremities. I rub my palms over the thighs of my jeans and clear my throat. “No, we’re not a couple. I already told you guys, I’m single.” “Ryan Marten doesn’t seem to think so,” Taylor chuckles, and I wait for him to catch my eye in the rearview mirror before I flash him the middle finger. He mimics the gesture, but my mind is still stuck on Charlie and his stupid fucking questions. Part of me has the sneaking suspicion that he’s given me some sort of test, and I’ve failed it already. It doesn’t help that he hasn’t turned back around to face the front of the car. We eye each other for a long moment of silence before I say, just quietly enough that I’m not sure the others will hear, “Have you told him we’re in the same squad now?” He shrugs. It’s a useless movement, but I think it must mean that he hasn’t, because he’d have no reason to hide the truth if he’d already told. I swallow. “Okay. Can you… not? Like, can you not tell him they put me back in the Whitman squad? Or that I’m—can you not mention me at all, actually?” Charlie just shrugs again. I want to grab him by the front of his shirt and shake him, want to scream in his face, You don’t understand what he did to me. I think I used to be okay before I met him, I think I used to be normal and happy and good, but he broke me into a dozen fucked up, dirty pieces, and no one will hold him accountable to that. I’m not ‘his crazy ex-boyfriend,’ but if I am, it’s only because that’s what he turned me into. I even open my mouth to say this, but Taylor checks his cell phone at a stoplight and lets out a little burst of laughter. “Steve just texted me,” he says. “They’re already at the lounge, and all the Ward girls are there—apparently, Kaitlyn invited Tess.” Charlie finally turns away from me to glare at Taylor’s phone. “What, seriously? And Vanessa thought this was a good idea?” “I dunno, I guess she didn’t realize she’d been invited until it was too late to tell her to keep her crazy ass in the dorms.” “Who’s Tess?” I ask. “Some psycho Declan nailed last fall,” Sam explains. “He’s never had a girlfriend, but he’s had a lot of girls. It’s not like it’s a secret, even to the girls at their school. They all know he fucks anybody who’s cute enough, and they all know he’s not serious about any of ‘em. He hardly ever goes back for seconds. But I guess Tess never got that memo, because when he did her and didn’t want more, she lost her shit.” Taylor snorts. “She called him so many times, he had to contact his phone company and have her number blocked, because she completely ignored him when he tried to let her down easy.” The idea of Declan bothering to let anyone down easy is beyond me, but I elect not to point this out. “Then, she started showing up on campus. It was like something out of a horror movie,” Charlie adds. “She’d bust in during study hours, when it was quiet and nobody was out of the rooms to see her sneaking in. We could all hear her pounding on his door for like, hours. But one day, she made the mistake of showing up during the middle of MLEP—” “Shit,” I groan. “I bet Smitth fuckin’ lost it.” “You have no idea,” Sam laughs. “He called the headmistress at Ward and demanded that someone come pick her up and restrict her off-campus privileges until she ‘got herself under control.’ And, of course, he tore Dec a new one right there in front of everybody—” “Oh, the old ‘next time your dick interferes with my instruction, I’ll have the marksmanship team use you for target practice’ speech,” I sigh. “I remember it well. Smitth used to scream it at me every time I made one of the other cadets cry during PT.” Taylor cocks a brow at me in the mirror. “Is that something you did regularly?” I make a face. “Only to the ones who deserved it.” Charlie flicks another glance over his shoulder at me, which is enough to make my heart skip a beat. I wish he’d stop doing that—giving me all these accusatory looks , making all these snide comments, like I was the one who made things go so wrong with his brother. Like I was the one throwing punches and holding Dave down and murmuring, “I think I’d go crazy if you ever left me, baby, you can’t ever leave me, I love you too much.” Like Dave was the one with almost a dozen broken bones, with two hundred hours of therapy under his belt, with tears smeared all over his face in the backseat of a Lexus. I slouch down and stare over at Sam, just so that I can look at someone who won’t blink back at me with Dave’s hazel eyes. When we arrive at the lounge, everyone else is already gathered in the parking lot, and there’s already some degree of bullshit, high school drama going on. Javi and a pretty, dark-haired girl who must be Vanessa, the girlfriend, are watching in silent judgment as a short blond in too-high heels hisses out a rant at her friend. Steven is slumped against the side of Javi’s car, obviously stoned and even more obviously annoyed at the girl for harshing his buzz. He’s making conversation with a fourth girl, who’s wearing black-framed Ray-Bans even though it’s dark out. I’m pretty sure she’s just trying to block out the hysterical girl, which I can appreciate; my own hand is twitching closer tot he jacket pocket where I’ve stashed my aviators. Being a Corey Hart douche who wears his sunglasses at night is looking like a better option than getting caught shooting critical looks at a total stranger. Ten feet away, oblivious to the scene unfolding nearby, Declan is sitting on the trunk of the girls’ car, reclining against the slope of the rear windshield and smoking a cigarette. His legs are kicked apart to make room for a doe-eyed girl with dark, chin-length hair. The girl is crowding into his space to flirt with him, but he’s either stoned, disinterested, or both, because his gaze keeps drifting away from her face. Eventually, it drifts towards where I am standing with Taylor, Sam, and Charlie. His mouth stretches into a smirk. “Took you long enough to get here,” he says. “If I’d known inviting you would disrupt the schedule so much, I wouldn’t have done it.” He’s really only addressing me, so I figure there’s nothing to be lost by wandering over to him as I say, “Yeah, yeah. Are you done with your Whitesnake moment, or do we have to watch you roll around on a car for another ten minutes before we can go smoke?” “I am smoking,” he says, shooting me an annoyed look and gesturing with his cigarette. He holds it the same way most people hold a joint, pinched between his thumb and index finger. It’s been over a month since I’ve smoked a cigarette—I can’t help but stare at the thin curl of smoke trailing off the tip of it. Declan must notice my attention, because he laughs and beckons me closer, nudging the girl impatiently aside with his knee, like she’s just a barstool that’s in his way. “How about you help me finish it instead of bitching about how long it’s taking me?” He’s holding the cigarette out, and I could easily take it from him, but… well, I’m me. So, instead, I step between his parted legs and brace my hands against the trunk on either side of his hips, ducking in to take a long, slow drag off the cigarette while it’s still pinned between his fingers. It’s a complete invasion of personal space, but he doesn’t seem to mind; he simply cocks his head to the side and watches me with eyelids at half-mast. Definitely high, but he doesn’t smell like pot smoke. Besides, he’s too boneless for that. I lean back, lick my lips, and say quietly, “So, did Steven only smoke up? Or is he on the same thing as you?” One of Declan’s eyebrows ticks up. I mimic the movement. “Percocet, right?” “Good call,” he says, flicking the cigarette butt away. “It’s not like I ended up in rehab because I’m inexperienced with drugs, dude,” I say. I step back from the car, grab him by the wrist, and haul him to his feet before I turn to the rest of the group and announce, “Are we going inside anytime soon?” The tiny blond girl stops her meltdown in mid-word, turns to me, and says, “I’m sorry, but can you just wait a minute? I’m talking to my friend, and this is important, and I don’t even know who you are, okay?” “I’m Garen,” I say, letting my lip curl a little. “And I’m guessing you’re… Tess, right?” Sam sidles a little closer so that he can stomp on the toe of my boot in warning. I snort. “Yeah, alright then. I’m gonna go inside. Feel free to join me whenever you’re done with—” I wave my hand in a vague circle that I hope indicates all of her angst, “—whatever this is.” She opens her mouth to retort, but I’m already slinging one arm around Taylor’s shoulders and the other around Sam’s and steering them towards the door of the hookah lounge. Sam digs an elbow into my side and says, “Thank fucking god. I thought we were going to have to stand out there for another hour while she bitched about Declan hitting on Jenn.” “Why don’t you guys just tell her to fuck off?” I whisper. “What, like we want to get involved in the girl drama?” Taylor says. “None of us like Tessa, but Kaitlyn’s friends with her, Vanessa and Jenn are friends with Kaitlyn, and we’re all friends with Vanessa and Jenn. You know, usual high school bullshit.” I try to hide a cringe—sometimes, I really wish I’d graduated last year, so that all of this would be over with by now. The rest of the group trails after us, Tess and Kaitlyn bringing up the rear. There’s only one booth that’s large enough to seat a dozen people, and even that’s more cramped than I’d like. I end up wedged between Declan and the girl in the Ray-Bans while Javi and Vanessa put in the requests for the shisha flavors we want. “Nice sunglasses,” I say, and the girl offers me a faint smirk. “Yeah, I know I must seem like a douche for wearing them inside. I guess I’m that girl.” “Sorry, but I’m pretty sure the role of that girl has already been filled for the evening,” I say, tipping my head towards my other side; the short-haired girl named Jenn is on Declan’s left, and on her left, Tess watches them with vengeful eyes. Sunglasses Girl snorts. I shrug out of my jacket and dig my aviators from the inside pocket, giving them a faint wave. “Besides, I have no room to judge.” The girl plucks the aviators from my fingers and perches them on my nose, making it almost impossible to see anything in the already-dark lounge. She announces, “Twins,” then a second later adds, “Aubrey. Garen, you said?” “I said,” I agree. Kaitlyn leans across the table and says, “Garen Anderson, right?” I nod. “Are you still friends with James Goldwyn?” I nod, but don’t say anything. A beat passes. “Does he still live in New York?” I slowly raise my eyebrows, giving her my best there’s no way in hell I’m telling you that look. Sure enough, a moment later, she admits, “He and I went out for a little bit during my sophomore year.” “Jamie had eight different girlfriends during our junior year,” I say blankly. “Plus, six different boyfriends. And probably half a dozen people of each gender who he fucked around with, but never actually dated. So, uh. Cool. I’m sure it was a very meaningful relationship for both of you.” “Christ,” Javi laughs. “How many people has that guy slept with?” “No idea,” I say, shrugging. “We tried to come up with a list when we were stoned once, but we lost track somewhere in the forties. He ended up getting all disappointed in himself for being such a slut, so I called his mom and asked her to yell at him so he’d feel properly chastised.” It had been an incredibly counter-productive phone call, because the moment Mama Goldwyn had answered the phone, I had remembered that Jamie’s parents still thought he was a heterosexual virgin. I’d ended up blurting out, Jamie’s sad because he just realized how awful he is, so you need to tell him he’s a failure so that he can process his suckitude and move on with his life. The problem with this, of course, was that Jamie’s parents are possibly the sweetest people alive, so Mama Goldwyn had just gotten incredibly concerned about her only child being sad for “no damned reason,” and I’d ended up spooning Jamie for an hour while his mom ranted on speakerphone about all the reasons why he’s wonderful. Later that night, we called my mom instead, and since I have a disturbingly open relationship with my parents, I had whined, “Mom, Jamie and I are sluts, and we need you to yell at us until we feel bad about it.” She had cheerfully obliged. So, you know. Different families work in different ways, I guess. Right now, though, I’m kind of distracted by the way Kaitlyn has started sulking across the table from me. To get myself off the hook, I turn to Aubrey and rake my eyes over her, looking for something—anything, really—that stands out so we’ll have something to talk about, other than our mutual love of sunglasses. Finally, my eyes settle on her hands, and I say brightly, “The nail on your little finger is way longer than the others! Is it for playing the guitar, or snorting a bunch of cocaine? ‘Cause either way, you and I are about to have something in common.” “It’s for both!” Jenn leans around Declan to inform me. “Shut up, Jenn, I don’t do coke,” Aubrey says indignantly. There’s a half-second pause, and then she leans closer to me so that she can whisper, “That’s a lie. But Vanessa’s pretty ‘just say no,’ and I don’t want her to get pissed at me.” “Why the hell is she dating Javi, when he’s best friends with this guy?” I say, tipping my head towards Declan, who is scrolling idly through his cell phone while Jenn fondles his knee under the table. Aubrey shrugs. “Because Javi and Declan have a ‘bros before hos’ code that’s not to be trifled with. And Javi might party when he’s out with his boys, but he respects Vanessa’s wishes and doesn’t do it in front of her. Besides, Declan’s a nice enough guy.” She drops her voice to a whisper again. “That was a lie, too. Declan’s actually a mean little shit. But we—that is, the girls in the group—put up with him because he’s stupidly attractive.” “Isn’t he, though?” I say. Declan lets his head roll in our direction and blinks lazily up at me. Jenn is right in the middle of a sentence, and I’m pretty sure Dec should be at least pretending to listen to her, but he says, “You know, I’m sitting right here. I can hear you both saying my name repeatedly. What are you talking about?” “How fucking sexy we think you are,” I say. It’s the truth, but I’m pretty sure the bland smile I flash along with the words will convince him that I’m bullshitting him. He blinks past me and says, “I’ll put Aubrey on my ‘to-do’ list.” “How flattering,” she says dryly. “What about Garen? Doesn’t he get to play, too?” “Garen is disqualified from playing,” Declan says, slowly shaking his head from side to side. “On what grounds?” I say, doing my best to sound morally outraged. And then, in a move that surprises me enough to make me jolt, Declan slips his hand off his own knee and onto mine, drags it up my thigh, and palms my dick through my jeans and says, “On the grounds of you having this.” “Not sure I understand, you should probably keep your hand right there,” I say, all in a rush. And it’s a joke—he’s joking, I’m joking, Aubrey’s joking—but if he doesn’t let go pretty much right now, I’m going to start getting hard. It’s basically the only reaction I’m capable of having when a hot redhead starts groping me under the table, but it’s also the type of thing that could turn me joking around into me getting my ass beat. There isn’t enough Percocet in the world to make a straight boy cool with groping another dude’s hard-on. Luckily, Declan just gives me a faint squeeze and retracts his hand. “Sorry, Anderson. My cock discriminates on the basis of gender.” He lets his attention drift back towards Jenn, who seems relieved to be his focus once more. The rest of the night passes easily enough. I spend most of it alternating between talking to Aubrey, calling across the table to joke with Sam and Taylor, and enjoying the frankly delicious shisha in the hookah. The atmosphere tenses up a bit when Declan asks that we let him out of the circular booth so that he can go to the restroom, and Jenn makes the same request less than a minute later. Neither of them comes back, and by the time twenty minutes have gone by, Tess is wiping angry tears off her cheeks and being soothed by Kaitlyn. “Well, this is fun and all,” Steven says slowly, staring across the table to Tess, “but we should probably head back to campus. It’s what, twelve twenty? Weekend curfew is one, so…” “Yeah, definitely,” Charlie says. “Someone just needs to, uh—” “Of course,” Kaitlyn interrupts, shooting him a warning look that is presumably an attempt to silence him before he actually says the words tell Declan to stop wrecking Jenn in the bathroom. “We’re just going to go outside, okay? Somebody else can handle that.” Somebody else, it turns out, means me. I try to pawn the job off on Javi, but he justs shakes his head and says, “Nope. I interrupt Dec’s sex life on an almost daily basis just by being his roommate. Not my job tonight. Tell him to hurry the fuck up, though. I wanna go.” I roll my eyes at all of them and head across the lounge to shoulder open the bathroom door. There are three stalls, and only one of them is occupied. It’s… one hundred percent obvious what they’re doing in there. Neither of them is doing much to stifle their sounds, and there are two sets of hands curved tightly over the top of the stall door for either leverage or balance. I trudge over and bang the heel of my hand against the door. “Hey, firecrotch,” I say loudly. “Everybody’s heading out. Javi says to get it done now. I’m leaving with Taylor, so I’ll see you on Monday.” “Are you leaving with Taylor, or are you leaving with Taylor?” Declan asks, breath hitching. I can’t help but raise my eyebrows at the stall door. What I mean to say is, just because he and I are both gay, doesn’t mean we’re going to fuck. Or maybe, let’s be real, I’m super slutty and his standards are a lot higher than that. Instead, what I end up saying is a taunting, “Aww, you jealous, baby?” He chuckles. “You wish I cared enough to be jealous.” I make a noncommittal noise and leave for the parking lot. Everyone is still gathered around the cars, except for Kaitlyn and Tess, who are already bundled into theirs. It seems safe for me to announce, “They’re still working on it, but I assume they’ll be done soon. So, Javi, Vanessa, enjoy your lovely evening of standing around, waiting for your friends to stop boning. I think the rest of us are going to call it a night.” “Alright, man,” Javi says, stepping closer to clap me on the shoulder. He drops his voice, but not that much, as he adds, “I’m glad you finally came out with us tonight. And I’m—we don’t care, you know? That you’re sober? It’s not a problem for any of us. We still wanna be friends with you, so don’t, you know, worry about it.” It’s either a sweet thing to say, or an incredibly awkward thing to say. Maybe both. I’m not quite sure how to respond, so I settle for saying, “Thanks, dude,” and bolting away to call shotgun on Taylor’s car.

155 days sober Two minutes into Wednesday’s PT, Ryan sidles up to me and says, “Hey, sexy. Do you want to maybe do something tonight?” Laughing and saying no seems like it’d be a dick response, so instead, I say, “Uh, I’m pretty sure I’ve already got plans. Sorry.” His face darkens. “You do? With who?” “Just a friend,” I hedge. A bullshit, fictional friend. Or my dog. Whatever. “Nobody who goes here, so I doubt you know him.” “So, you’re doing something with another guy tonight,” he says flatly. I blink. “Am I not allowed to do that?” “Apparently, you’re allowed to do whatever the fuck you want,” he snaps and stalks away. “What,” I say, because seriously, this is the weirdest non-argument ever, and I don’t get why the rest of my squadmates are snickering at me. The second I stop into the dining hall for breakfast, though, I realize exactly what I’ve missed. “Shit,” I whisper, staring in wide-eyed horror at the overflowing cardboard boxes full of tiny teddy bears near the staff tables. “It’s Valentine’s Day.” “It is indeed,” Javi says cheerfully. Of course he’s smiling--he has a girlfriend, so he’s probably getting laid tonight. He doesn’t have to put up with his I-don’t-actually-like-you-with-benefits glaring at him from the next table over. He doesn’t have to find a way to tactfully avoid acknowledging the holiday when he sees his ex-and-maybe-future-boyfriend, slash friend, slash stepbrother, slash roommate. “Yo, Garen,” Steven says, waving a piece of paper at me as I take my usual seat at our table. “Final numbers. You want in on this?” “What is it?” I ask. “Every year, we bet on how many Valentine bears Declan will get from the Ward girls,” Taylor explains. “Probably not what administration had in mind when they started the whole Patton-Ward fundraiser, but whatever. We go by whoever guesses closest without going over. I won last year with fifteen.” I take the paper from Steven and scan the numbers. Taylor has the lowest number, sticking with fifteen, and Charlie has guessed the highest, with twenty-one. I toss the paper into the center of the table and say, “I’m going with twenty-five.” “Go big or go home, I suppose,” Steven says skeptically, marking me down. I shake my head. “This’ll be the year he gets stuff from all the chicks who were too shy to send anything in the past. Senior year and all that. I wasn’t a student here this time last year, but I was crashing in Jamie’s dorm, so I saw how many he got. It was like, dozens. And they all had little heartfelt, anonymous notes attached. It was nasty.” I jump when a freckle-dotted arm sneaks past me to steal the list. “Twenty-five? Anderson, you flatter me.” Declan sinks into Sam’s usual seat between Charlie and me. Sam, who is only a few steps behind him, stumbles a little, frowns, but switches to Declan’s normal seat on Javi’s left. We get to enjoy twenty minutes of a peaceful breakfast before the student council members start weaving through the tables and doling out the teddy bears. Barely thirty seconds pass before one of them comes up and dumps a bear next to Declan’s plate. He looks at it like it’s covered in festering herpes sores. I pluck the card out of the little ribbon around its neck and flip it open. “Declan—and then a little heart,” I announce. “I’ve never told you this, but I’ve had a crush on you since we were freshmen. I think you know who this is. Please let me know if you feel the same way.” “No idea who that’s from. But I’m sure she’s adorable,” he says, clearly not meaning it. Before he can say anything else, another bear is delivered. And another. And another. And another. I keep removing the cards, previewing them, and reading the funny ones aloud. Some are boring--happy v-day, baby! or I think you’re cute—but some are amazing. “We’ve never even spoken, but I’m in love with you. Jesus Christ, dude, what kind of girls do you attract? I mean, she didn’t straight-up say, ‘I want to wear your skin as a dress,’ but it’s pretty heavily implied. Oh, here’s another--text me if you want the sexiest pics you’ll ever see. She didn’t give her name, but here’s her number.” Declan peers over my shoulder and starts composing a new text to the number. “Anderson?” says a student council kid at my elbow. I hitch my chin in acknowledgment. He hands me a tiny bear and walks away. “The fuck?” I say. “Can Patton dudes send bears to other Patton dudes, or is there some girl over at Ward who didn’t get the memo about me being a gigantic homo?” Declan gets his revenge at once by ripping the card off the bear’s neck and reading aloud, “So glad you’re a commuter student, because it means I get to start every day with the sight of you fresh out of the shower. Burn all your clothing, you look better without it. Happy Valentine’s Day, you hot piece of ass.” “I’ve never felt more objectified in my life,” I declare, unable to keep the sheer delight out of my voice. “This is—” “You’re Garen Anderson, right?” I look over my shoulder at the sophomore, then at the bear in his hand. “That for me?” He nods. Before I can move, Declan steals it and opens the card. “I suspect this is from a Ward girl, considering it says, I wish you were straight so I could sit on your face.” Javi chokes on a mouthful of orange juice, and I should probably pound my fist on his back a couple times to be sure he’s okay, but I’m too busy trying not to gag at the mental image of myself eating pussy. By the time breakfast is done, I’ve got almost a dozen bears shoved into my backpack, and Declan’s pile is covering half the goddamn table. I’d bet anything that he’s going to leave them all there, too, so that the janitors will have to just toss them all out; he doesn’t really strike me as the stuffed animal type. Taylor, who is obviously out of the running, carefully counts the bears, and eventually announces, “Twenty-four. Charlie wins.” “Pay up, bitches,” Charlie says immediately. “I was off by one,” I groan. “That’s so not fair.” “Tough shit, Anderson. Them’s the rules. If you go over, you’re automatically out,” Steven says. We all fork over the cash that Charlie has won. I turn to whine at Declan about how he should’ve nailed just one more chick so I could have my guess be right on the mark, but he’s busy smirking down at one of my bear cards. When he catches my curious stare, he passes me the card without comment. Great meeting you the other night, reads the loopy script. We should all hang out again sometime. Love, Aubrey. Then, below that, there’s a phone number and the postscript, I’m like 85% sure we could convince Declan Campbell to have a threesome if we got a few drinks in him first. Wanna? I can feel my eyebrows creeping towards my hairline. Aubrey was cool enough, but the threesome thing is a little weird. If she were a dude, I’d be down; if I were a chick, I’m sure Declan would be down. It’s really just a matter of gender incompatibility. I think. “Would you agree with that number?” I ask, tucking the card into my backpack along with the rest of the cards and bears. “Eight-five percent chance of that workin’ out?” “Guess you two’ll have to get me drunk and find out,” he replies. “But I must say, I’m a little disappointed that you didn’t send me a Valentine. It’s the sort of thing that’ll make a young man feel rejected.” I dig a Sharpie out of my backpack and yank the cap off with my teeth, keeping it pinned there as I flip one of my cards over and scribble a message onto it. I cap the marker, toss it onto the table, and shove the card at Declan. He picks it up, clears his throat, and reads aloud, “Roses are red, violets are blue. Gingers are creepy, but I’d still blow you.” He looks up at me. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re incredibly charming?” “Several people,” I say. “All of them were lying to you. You’re not. At all,” he says, but he slips the card into his pocket instead of leaving it on the table. Then, he snags my Sharpie and scribbles something on one of his discarded love notes. He presses the slip of paper into my hand, but when I give him a questioning look, his only response is to briefly quirk an eyebrow. It doesn’t feel right to read it now, but the moment the rest of the squad vacates the table and leaves me sitting there alone, I unfold the paper. There’s some cutesy little note on it, full of I’s that are dotted with tiny flowers, ending in a heart. I turn it over, and there’s a message in Declan’s boyish Sharpie scrawl. Roses are red, violets are blue. If I liked guys, I’d fucking wreck you. I can’t remember the last time I really blushed, but I can feel the heat creeping into my face now. I shove the note into my pocket and spend our entire stats class ignoring the way Declan is smirking at me from across the room.When I get home from school that night, it’s dark enough that I almost trip over something on the doorstep. Bracing one hand against the door to steady myself, I squint down at the object at my feet. It’s a long, white box, like the kind florists use to deliver roses, and there’s a small envelope taped to the front, my name printed neatly on it. “Please be joking,” I groan, letting my forehead hit the door. Inside the house, Omelette must recognize the sound of my voice, because I can hear the sound of his claws tearing across the hardwood of the entryway to come meet me. I contemplate leaving the box outside so that I don’t have to deal with it; it’s probably from creepy Ryan, or any one of the other randoms who sent me a stupid bear today. But when I eventually stoop down and lift the box, it’s a hell of a lot heavier than flowers should be. I tuck it under my arm, unlock the door, say hello to my dog, and trudge into the kitchen to set the box down on the counter. It’s bound shut with a thick red ribbon, tied in a knot too tight for me to get it open myself. I grab a steak knife from the drawer and slice it open, flipping the lid off so that I can peer inside. And then I actually laugh out loud, because it’s not a box of flowers at all. It’s full of things I actually like. Bags of gummy bears, a new set of strings for my guitar, a canister of my favorite coffee grounds, a carton of my brand of cigarettes, a package of guitar picks, a burned CD in a plain jewel case. And half-buried in the middle of every thing else, there are a few red roses. It’s, you know, weird, but still kind of awesome. And obviously not from some Patton random who knows fuck-all about me. I slip the CD out of its case and wander into the living room to put it in the DVD player. By the time it loads up enough to play, I’m already back in the kitchen, tearing open one of the bags of gummy bears and popping a handful in my mouth. The first song on the CD is by one of my favorite bands, but it’s… not exactly a happy song, is the thing. And it’s not a hey I think you’re cute and you should be my Valentine song, either. It’s a post-break-up song. Which is kind of weird.

Frowning, I turn the lid of the box back over and pluck the envelope off of it, slipping a finger beneath the seal to tear it open. The moment I catch a real glimpse of the handwriting on the card, my stomach lurches so violently that I’m legitimately concerned I might be about to puke gummy bears all over the kitchen floor. I manage to keep my mouth clamped shut and my full-body shaking mostly under control, until I get upstairs and into the bathroom, and then I’m on my knees, retching into the toilet. I can hear Omelette bounding up the stairs to investigate the awful noises I’m making, but I can’t deal with him right now, so I kick the bathroom door shut to keep him out. No. I can’t do this. I can’t handle this, not now, not when I was just starting to feel normal. Just when I was starting to feel safe. I don’t want to read this card, and I don’t want to have that shit all over my kitchen counter, and I don’t want to hear that fucking music anymore. Not if they’re all from him. But the card that’s clenched in my fist is like an infection. It’s a disease, and it’s just going to consume me until I man up, read it, get it out of my system. When I think I can finally move without choking, I flatten the card against my knee and smooth it out as best I can. Thinking of you—often, but today in particular. I never got a chance to tell you how sorry I am for everything that’s happened. I’d love to see you sometime, sit down and really talk, make it all up to you, even if we’re supposed to wait until you’re 21 to see each other again. Miss you. Call me. Reading the card prompts another wave of nausea that has me hunching over the toilet once more. It’s so fucking casual, like we had a normal breakup. Like either of us pretended that let’s be friends was an option after I got out of the hospital. I haven’t even spoken to him him months; the last words I said to him were part of a string of pleas for him to stop beating me. So, what I really want to know is, how the fuck does he know my new address? I’ve only been living here a month and a half, and I sure as hell haven’t called him to invite him over for tea or what the fuck ever. The fact that he knows where to have something delivered to me makes me feel like I’m going to be sick all over again. And then it hits me—the box wasn’t delivered through the mail. It couldn’t have been. There was no postage on it, and it was full of too many personally selected things to have been put together by someone else. For fuck’s sake, his handwriting is on it. And it was on my porch. He was on my porch. He was at my house. He might-- He might still be at my house. In half a second, I’m on my feet and out in the hall. My heart is pounding so hard I think I might pass out, and I can hear the shuddering little gasps my breathing has become. Omelette noses at my leg, letting out tiny woofs to be sure I’m aware of his discomfort. I guess what everyone says about dogs picking up on their owner’s emotions must be true, because he can obviously tell that I’m freaking out, and I think it’s freaking him out, too. I dig my trembling fingers into his fur for a moment and say, as quietly as I can, “C’mon, puppy. We’re going to go on a little trip.” I’ve got no idea where I’m going, but I can’t stay here, not if Dave might actually be around. I need to be with someone who can protect me, because every time I think I can protect myself, I end up in a fucking coma. I’m all alone here, with the exception of Omelette, who’d be completely useless at saving me. I can’t leave him here, though; if Dave was fine with hospitalizing me twice, I doubt he’d hesitate to hurt my dog. For the first time since I brought Omelette home, I kind of wish I’d gone with the Doberman mix instead. I stop by my bedroom to grab some clothes, my phone charger, and—as a last-minute decision—the switchblade I bought on a whim when I was a junior and abandoned in my nightstand drawer soon after. The knife goes into my jacket pocket, and everything else is brought downstairs and stuffed into my duffel bag. I pour some of Omelette’s food into a big ziploc bag, then tuck that and his squeaky duck into the duffel, too.

The CD is still playing in the living room, though it’s on a new song now. I eject it, place it carefully back inside the jewel case, and cart the duffel, my backpack, and the box out to my trunk. I don’t release the handle of the switchblade for even a second. I grab Omelette’s leash, but don’t bother to attach it to his collar; he’s well-behaved enough that I can just lead him out front, lock up the house, and guide him into the passenger seat of the car. I’m halfway to the city before I realize where I’m going, then three-quarters of the way there before I realize I should probably call first. I fumble to get my phone out of my pocket, but my fingers are still stiff enough that I have to wait until I get to a red light before I can manage to dial Jamie’s number properly. “Why, hello there, darling,” he finally answers. “Happy Val—” “Can I come over?” I ask, my voice cracking on the question. “I’m already on my way, so I hope you’re going to say yes. Well, I’m not on my way. Omelette and I are both on the way.” “Are you okay?” Jamie asks. I shake my head, even though I know he can’t see it. I’m not sure I can speak again. He must realize this, because he continues, in a quieter, more soothing voice, “Alright. That’s fine. I need to call down to the security in my lobby so that they’ll let you up with the dog. Is that alright, or do you need me to stay on the line with you?” My reply is to hang up on him, because my throat still isn’t working. I park in the underground garage, as usual, and clip Omelette’s leash in place before I let him out of the car. The box from Dave is the only thing I bother to get out of my trunk before I head for the door. When I step into the lobby, the doorman looks up from his desk. His eyes flicker down to my dog, and he says, “Mr. Anderson, I assume?” I nod. He gives me a polite smile and pushes a clipboard across the desk towards me. “Mr. Goldwyn called just a few moments ago to tell me you’d be here. Since he isn’t registered as one of our pet-owning residents, I just need you to sign in here, acknowledging that you are bringing an animal onto the premises.” I scribble my signature across the dotted line without even reading it. Mom would probably slap me if she knew I’d done that. The doorman accepts the clipboard, then passes me a package wrapped in brown paper. “And this was delivered for Mr. Goldwyn this afternoon, if you’d like to bring it up for him.” “Sure. Thanks,” I mutter. I don’t even want to touch the package—not if there’s any chance that his delivery is going to make him feel as helpless and terrified as mine has made me feel. But I can’t exactly tell the doorman to go fuck himself, so I stack the package on top of the white box and head for the elevator. Omelette, it turns out, is not a fan of elevators, and I am not a fan of dealing with his shit right now. The second the door slides shut and he starts whimpering, I say, “Stop that. It’s like, a five second ride to the sixth floor. Chill.” He ignores me, whining louder and louder until he finally decides it’s time to let out an actual bark that’s too loud and too disconcerting in the small elevator. “Omelette, knock it off,” I snap. He shuts up, but all that does is make me feel like an asshole. It only occurs to me as I’m opening the door to Jamie’s apartment that I’m sort of an asshole for bringing a hyperactive dog to my obsessively neat best friend’s beautiful, white-carpeted apartment. The thought sends me stumbling to a halt just inside the door. There isn’t much time for me to mull over my own selfishness, though, because then Jamie’s standing right in front of me, unclipping Omelette’s leash and nudging the dog further into the apartment. “What happened?” he asks. I shove the two packages at him. “Your doorman asked me to bring that brown thing up for you. Said it was delivered for you this afternoon.” He barely spares the package a glance before he sets it aside. He gives the white box a small shake. “And this?” “That was on my porch when I got home from school,” I say. It comes out like a whisper. He removes the lid and sifts through the contents with a frown on his face. Once he has finished, I reach into my pocket and pull out the card. “That came with it.” Jamie reads it once, then again, and again. I can see his gaze flickering back to the start of it at least four times before he looks up at me again. His eyes are utterly blank. “Do you have your phone with you now, or did you leave it in the car?” “I don’t know,” I say quietly. He steps closer to me, palms up like he wants me to know he’s not a threat. I almost laugh—Jamie’s one of the only people in the world who I could stand to trust right now, so I’m not really that concerned with the idea that he could hurt me. When I don’t protest, he slips a hand into the pocket of my jacket, feeling around for my phone. He comes up empty, checks the other pocket, and pulls out my BlackBerry. I clear my throat. “What are you doing?” “Calling your mother,” he replies. I smack the phone out of his hand. He tries to catch it before it hits the ground, but fails. Scowling, he drops to one knee to retrieve it. “Garen, don’t play with me.” “Don’t bring my mom into this,” I snap back. “In case you’ve forgotten, she’s not just your mother; she’s also your lawyer. She needs to know that Walczyk violated his restraining ord—” “He didn’t, though,” I protest. “N-Not really. He’s not supposed to call me or text me or email me. And he didn’t.” Jamie gestures to the box so emphatically that he almost knocks it off the table. “He came to your home, Garen. He went out and bought all of these things he knew you’d like, as if he’s some fucking pedophile filling his van with candy, and he drove all the way from Connecticut to drop it at your door. What if you’d been home when he showed up? What if Travis had been? Marian needs to know about this, and she needs to make sure that it doesn’t happen again.” “She’s going to freak, James,” I say. “I know,” is all he comes back with. I guess that’s all there really is to it. I sigh and turn back to the door so that I can throw the bolt, just to be sure we’re safe inside. Jamie starts scrolling through the contacts list on my phone and strides off down the hall to the privacy of his bedroom. Still curious about his shiny new surroundings, Omelette trots after him. I’m only alone for about twenty seconds before the dog comes right back, crowding close and bumping up against my knee. I hold out my hand, palm up, and he gives a reassuring lick to my wrist. I’m comforted, but not much. The brown-wrapped package is still lying on the table, and I drag it closer, if only so that I can think about anything other than the phone call that’s occurring in the other room. And sure enough, it provides one hell of a distraction, because the tiny precise letters spelling out J. Goldwyn are in Ben McCutcheon’s handwriting. I blink at the return address, and sure enough, it’s the apartment in New Haven. Without bothering to call into the other room to ask permission, I flip the package over and dig my fingertip under the taped flap of the paper. I mean, I’ve been in both of these guys; that gives me license to open their mail, doesn’t it? Besides, the idea of Ben sending Jamie anything other than a bomb is kind of weirding me out, but this is way too small to be a bomb. It’s a book. Of course it is. I thumb through the pages until I find a folded scrap of paper between the twentieth and twenty-first pages. The paper is printed with letterhead bearing the name of Ben’s dad’s bookstore, probably torn from one of the scratch pads they keep at the counter, and the words scrawled across it have been practically ripped into the paper in anger. STOP SENDING ME BOOKS. We’re even now, alright? You’ve sent me four, I’ve sent you four. If your snide little reply is to send me anything else, I will drive to New York, murder you, cut you into pieces, and feed you to the nastiest Central Park hobo I can find. I am not joking. Four books each, counting the one in my hands. I set it down on the table and trudge out to the living room so that I can examine the bookshelves, maybe see if I can figure out which other three are from Ben. Jamie alphabetizes all of his books by title, so it isn’t like any of them stand out, but the search is a welcome distraction from the box that’s still taunting me from the table. That’s where I’m still standing when Jamie returns five minutes later. His mouth is already twisted into a frown, but that frown deepens when he realizes I’ve got a hand on the bookshelf. He catches me by the wrist and scans the shelf to be sure I wasn’t reordering them just to fuck with him—I’ve never done that, but some of our old Patton friends got a kick out of tormenting his Type-A ass by moving his shit around when he was out of the dorm room. Satisfied that I haven’t messed with anything, he looks back at me and says, “Your mama’s livid. She kindly requests that you sit your ass down on my couch and don’t even think about leaving; she’s on her way over here to get a good look at that.” He jerks his head towards the box. “She also requested that I call Travis and have him come over here once he’s done with his evening classes. She doesn’t want either of you going home just yet.” “He wasn’t there,” I bite out. “He—I would’ve known if he was there, okay? I-I would’ve felt it.” I’m not sure that I would have, though. After all these months, I’m too used to the feeling of eyes on me, too used to panicking at the thought that Dave might be standing around the corner with his hands clenched into fists. I don’t know if I trust my own instincts anymore. Not where he is concerned. Rather than verbalize this, though, I sink onto the couch and say, “What, uh… what was Travis’ reaction?” “I didn’t tell him what happened, only asked that he come here immediately after class got out,” Jamie says. He smiles, even though he doesn’t look all that amused. “Takes instruction shockingly well.” “Not everyone is as much of a power bottom as you are,” I say. “Speaking of which…” “I can’t wait to see what this is a segue into.” I cross back to the kitchen, swipe the book from the table, and give it a little wave. “Since when are you and Ben book club buddies?” “Since when do you get to open my mail?” he asks. “Since… always? I used to do it all the time when we shared a dorm mailbox at Patton. Now, answer my question. What’s with the books?” Jamie joins me at the table and takes the book from my hands. I watch as he pages through it, eventually finding the note. He reads it through; the corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s fighting a smile. He tucks the note back inside and brings the book over to the shelf, searching through the rest of the titles until he finds the appropriate place for it, even though that means shuffling some of the books from the end of one shelf to the beginning of the one below it. Task complete, he turns to me. “It isn’t a big deal,” he says. “When I returned the book he left here, I took the liberty of sending along two others I thought he might appreciate. He didn’t, of course. So, the little shit ended up mailing me two other books—his way of balancing things between us, I suppose. I would’ve left it at that, but when I went to my school’s bookstore to pick up a textbook I’d ordered, I happened to see another book that seemed like something he would enjoy reading. It’s been an… exchange system, I guess, since then. I send him a book, he sends me another, along with some threatening little note. I’ll stop, eventually, I’m sure of it. I just… keep seeing things he’d like.” “That’s nice,” I say. “Are you—” “Garen, stop,” he interrupts. I fall silent, save the faint click my throat makes as I swallow. “I don’t want to talk about McCutcheon. I don’t want to talk about books. All I want to talk about is you. Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” I lie immediately. “I-I’m great. I just… I freaked out, and I didn’t want to be alone for like, three more hours until Travis got home. I only came here because I panicked. It’s not a big deal.” It is a big deal. The look on Jamie’s face says that he knows this. Thankfully, he doesn’t call me out on the lie. Instead, he gestures towards the couch. “Let’s sit until your mother gets here.” Then, a second later, “If that fucking dog tries to climb up on my leather sofa, I will turn him into a coat.” “Okay, Cruella,” I say, rolling my eyes and directing Omelette to lie down on the floor near my feet. When my mom arrives twenty minutes later, she stalks into the apartment without buzzing into the building or knocking on the door. I’m unprepared to have anyone suddenly burst into the room; the sound of the door unlatching is enough to make me scramble closer to the corner of the couch, twisting around to stare. Jamie crowds up close to me, digging his fingers into my thigh to get my attention back on him. “It’s okay, Garen,” he says. “It’s just your mama, alright? I promise you, you’re safe here.” I shrug away from his hands, but then I’ve still got my mom to deal with. She sits down on my other side and folds me into a bone-crunching hug. “Are you alright?” “I guess,” I lie, voice somewhat muffled by her shoulder. “Just sort of, um… scared. I don’t even know how he knows my address.” Mom clears her throat. I pull out of her arms so that I can get a decent look at her. Her mouth is drawn into a thin line. She says, “Part of the restraining order requires that he be aware of your current address at all times, in order to ensure that he knows to stay away from it.” “So, I moved from Lakewood to New York to escape all the shit that was tormenting me in Connecticut, but you had to tell Dave my new address?” I say flatly. “The system is seriously designed to make sure that the guy who used to beat up on me always knows exactly where to find me?” “Unfortunately? Yes. I was obligated to tell the courts, and they sent him a letter with the update.” I can’t even begin to come up with a response to that. For several minutes, I just gnaw on my lip so I have an excuse to be silent while I try to process the fact that the court system that’s meant to protect me is actually the only reason Dave was able to find me in the first place. After a while, I stop chewing on my lower lip long enough to quietly ask, “So, um… even if I moved again, you’d still have to tell him where I was? There’s no way to make it so he can’t find me?” Mom flashes a brittle smile, but I think she’s only making that face so that she won’t accidentally reveal how truly upset she is. “In an oh-so-delightful twist of fate, the only way to make it so that you could move without him being informed of your new address would be to request that the restraining order be lifted. And that, of course, would mean that he could call you, come talk to you, or send you as many gifts as he wanted, with no consequence.” He could call me. He could talk to me. He could visit me. He could come right up to me, he could stand in front of me, he could touch me. My lungs constrict, and I shake my head so sharply that my neck cracks. “No. I don’t--no, I want to keep the restraining order. I can’t have him—Mom, I just want him to stay away.” “I know, Garen,” she hushes me. She smooths my hair down with her hand, like I’m a little boy again. For the first time in years, I duck my head and let her do it instead of pushing her hand off. She sighs. “Alright. Here is what we’re working with.” She clasps her hands together in a business-like manner. “After I hung up with Jamie, I contacted the New Haven police to inform them that David Walczyk had violated the restraining order. Or, that he had allegedly done so.” My throat dries up, and I have to clear it twice before I can force out, “Allegedly? What, you think I’m making it up?” “Of course not, Garen,” Mom says, hands breaking apart so that she can reach for my wrist. “But because the package wasn’t delivered through any sort of service, and because the card wasn’t signed, it could be very difficult to prove that the package was actually sent by him. Even if we could conclusively prove that he’d broken the restraining order, that’s all he’d be charged with. He didn’t assault you, he didn’t threaten you, he didn’t even see you in person. The only charge that would be brought up against him would be a misdemeanor, with a maximum penalty of five thousand dollars in fines and one year in prison. And that’s if we took it to court and won the case, which I doubt we could do.” “What’s the point of having a restraining order, if he’s not even going to go to jail for leaving terrifying presents on my front porch?” I demand. “He won’t go to jail this time. The New Haven PD is going to go to his home and give him his first and only official warning. If he violates the protective order again at any point during the next two years, he will be arrested. Do you understand?” I nod, but really, all I understand is that nothing is going to happen to him. He’s getting a slap on the wrist. He’s not even getting community service. He’s not getting a fine. He’s not getting sent to jail so that he can be the one who gets assaulted on the regular. He’s getting a fucking chit-chat with the cops, and I’m getting the full knowledge that I’m not really safe from him, even in New York. As if reading my mind, Mom adds, “After I spoke to the New Haven police, I called the police in your town. I explained the situation to them, and they agreed to go to the house and do a thorough walkthrough to be certain that nothing else has been left or disturbed.” Read: they agreed to make sure my psychotic ex isn’t hiding in a closet somewhere, waiting to bash my brains in with a baseball bat. “Shouldn’t I like, meet them there, then? So that I can let them in?” I say, moving to stand up. Mom shakes her head and puts a hand to my shoulder to still me. “No need. I also took the liberty of calling Travis. Once I told him what happened, he was more than willing to leave class early so that he could go back to the house to meet a few officers there at the top of the hour.” Oh. That’s… oh. I swallow. “So, he’s not coming here?” “He’s not coming here,” Mom confirms. “He said that he would call you once the police had cleared the house so that you could be comfortable going home. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from him sometimes within the next half hour or so. Alright?” “Alright,” I echo. There’s another knock on the door, but I have no idea who else could be here, if Travis is going straight home. Jamie seems similarly confused; he frowns, but goes to answer it anyway. I sit up to peer over the back of the couch, because I’m anxious and uncomfortable and embarrassed, but I’m still a nosy little shit. The door swings open, and there’s a brief beat of silence before Rachael says, “Happy Valentine’s Day.” “Happy Valentine’s Day,” Jamie echoes slowly. “I find myself compelled to ask if you received my message about tonight, except I didn’t leave a message at all. I spoke to you directly.” “I know. I was kind of there,” she says. “But I don’t—I mean, you said that there was Garen drama that you needed to handle. I kind of figured you would have handled it by now.” I don’t have time to get offended by her dismissive tone—I don’t even have time to flinch at the fact that apparently there is a whole subset of drama that is specifically considered Garen drama—before Jamie is crossing his arms over his chest and saying, “No, I believe that what I actually said was that my best friend needed me tonight, and that we would have to reschedule our date for this weekend.” Oh, shit. A date—of course he was supposed to have a date tonight. It’s Valentine’s Day, and he’s got a girlfriend he’s been with for like, three or four months now. It makes perfect sense that they would have made gross, couple-y plans to have dinner at a fancy restaurant, exchange unreasonably expensive gifts, and make sweet, tender love in front of a shitload of vanilla-scented candles. Or, whatever couples do on Valentine’s Day. Fuck if I know. I was single, drunk, and weepy last Valentine’s Day; single, drunk, and slutty the one before that; and single, drunk, and nursing a black eye the one before that, though in all fairness, I probably shouldn’t have dumped Dave on February twelfth. That memory sends another spike of fear through my gut, but I manage to poke my head up a little higher so that I can say, “Uh, hey, Rach. I didn’t realize you guys had plans. Really, you don’t need to cancel on my account. It’s fine, we’ll all just leave so you guys can—” “It’s not fine, and you’re not leaving,” Jamie interrupts. To Rachael, he adds, “I know you were looking forward to tonight’s date, and I was, too. Much as my actions suggest otherwise, I do want to spend time with you. I’m incredibly sorry, but I was very clear on the phone. Garen needs me, and that has to take priority.” “Why am I getting the impression that Garen always takes priority?” Rachael says quietly. I sink out of sight, making alarmed faces at my mom, but Jamie says simply, “Because he does.” There is a long, awkward pause. I contemplate knocking something over, just to break the tension, but the only thing I can reach is a lamp, and Jamie would kick me in the teeth if I broke that. I hear a faint shuffling—probably the sound of arms crossing—and then Rachael says, “This isn’t fair. You and I are supposed to be the ones in the relationship, James. Not you and Garen, who are determined to hang out every single day, even though it almost always means you’re choosing time with him over time with me. Not you and Travis, who have become total bros since he moved here. Not you and Alex, who were so stuck up each other’s asses for the entire first two months of our relationship. Not you and Ben, who keep sending each other these little message-in-a-novel gifts, like that isn’t so much more irritating than you texting me on New Year’s to ask if you can have sex with him behind my back.” “It’s not behind your back if he texted you for permission first,” I point out. Mom smacks me hard on the shoulder, and I shrink deeper into the couch cushions. Pretending I haven’t said a word, Jamie says, “I understand that you’re upset with me. I told you, I’m sorry. And I promise I’ll make this up to you, but not tonight. You can’t ask me to choose you over my friends.” “I shouldn’t have to ask you to,” Rachael says. “If you actually care about being with me, you’ll—” “Oh, I would really recommend that you not finish that sentence,” my mom is unable to stop herself from offering. “The boys are terrifyingly codependent, and if you plan to put some sort of ultimatum on the table right now… well, you would do well to prepare yourself for disappointment, frankly. They choose each other. Always.” Rachael closes her eyes and takes a long, slow breath. I can’t tell if she’s trying to stop herself from crying or punching my mom in the face. Either way, she manages to keep it together, because after about fifteen seconds, she opens her eyes, looks at Mom and says, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but this sort of a private conversation.” “Oh?” Mom says, arching an eyebrow. “It felt very much like a ‘standing right in front of two other people’ conversation. My mistake. If it’s a private conversation, perhaps you should have it privately.” Rachael opens her mouth, but Jamie shakes his head and places a hand in the small of her back. “Let’s take this to my room for a moment. I don’t want to have an argument with you at all, but I certainly don’t want to have an argument with you in front of other people.” He guides her down the hall to his bedroom. Mom looks around at me. “This is rather exciting. For years, I’ve been hearing about how all of Jamie’s relationships end because the two of you are obsessed with each other, but this is the first time I’ve actually been present for the breakup.” “Hey, woah, no,” I protest. “Not all of his relationships end because of me. He and Jake broke up because Jake would get drunk and make out with randoms in bars. He and Addison broke up because neither of them wanted to do the long-distance, Georgia-to-New-York thing. He and Candice broke up because she started calling her kitten ‘their baby,’ and it scared the shit out of him. He and Pete broke up because Pete was basically just using him for his money. It’s not always because of me.” But it’s almost always because of me, and now definitely seems like one of those times. I can’t make out the words that Jamie and Rachael are saying, but I can tell that their conversation is quickly dissolving into a fight. Her voice is getting louder and more infuriated with every sentence, but he eventually cuts her off with something very quiet, followed by a long silence. And then there is the loud, unmistakable crack of Jamie being slapped across the face. I can’t help it—I flinch. Right now isn’t the time for me to hear anyone getting hit by their significant other, even if it’s a girl hitting a guy. Spine straight, Mom reaches over and squeezes my hand. I squeeze back. We both look up as Rachael storms back down the hall, through the living room, and out of the apartment. It’s another minute or so before Jamie returns, tonguing the inside of his cheek like he’s testing whether or not it’s sensitive. “Soooo,” I say slowly. “That, uh… that was a breakup, right?” “Yes,” he says grimly. “Yes, Garen, that is the fifteenth breakup I’ve had in the past four and a half years that was essentially the result of a conversation about our codependent friendship.” “Fifteen? Jesus, dude. Maybe you should date fewer people,” I say. “But come one, tell me the truth. How much did you spend on whatever shiny little gift you were going to give her?” “Not nearly as much as I expect she was hoping I would,” Jamie replies. He pauses to pick up a small Tiffany giftbox that was sitting on the credenza, wanders closer, and tosses it to me. I untangle the white ribbon and pop open the box. It’s a silver locket engraved with an elegant scripted R, hanging from a thin silver chain. “Shame it’s got her initial on it,” I say, shrugging. “Otherwise I’d say to just give it to someone else. Like your mom.” Mom takes one look at the necklace and shakes her head. “Garen, please. Melissa would never wear something like that.” “It doesn’t matter,” Jamie says dismissively, flinging himself onto the couch on my other side. “I’m sure I’ll eventually make my way around to Rebecca or a Renee or something.” “A very faggy Robert,” I suggest, and Mom swats my knee, giving me yet another warning look for using that word. Omelette barks in protest, and for the first time since entering the apartment, Mom actually looks at him. “And who is this?” she says, blinking at the dog, then at Jamie. “Funny. You always struck me as more of a cat person.” “Sometimes,” Jamie says, ducking his head to hide a small smile. I elbow him hard in the ribs. “If that was your attempt to make a pussy joke to my mom, I’m going to fucking beat you to death with a hammer,” I warn. Then, because Mom is still waiting for some sort of explanation, I say, “So, uh. This is Omelette. And he’s a dog. Specifically, my dog. That I own.” “With?” Jamie prompts, and I try to elbow him again without my mom seeing, but it doesn’t work. “With Travis,” I eventually have to admit. “With Travis,” Jamie repeats, in case Mom didn’t hear. “They both own the dog. Together.” “Together,” Mom echoes, and Jesus Christ, why do they both keep doing that? “You moved into a house with your ex-boyfriend and adopted a dog together.” I nod. “Is this a test dog?” I frown. “A what?” “A test dog,” she says, grimacing. “You know, where you get a pet with someone you’re dating because you’re attempting to test their parenting skills. Is that what this is leading up to? Are you going to call me in a month and tell me that you and he have platonically adopted a child togeth—” “No!” I burst out. God, I hope my face doesn’t betray the way my insides are squirming at the idea of me and Travis doing exactly that someday. “Fuck, Mom. You’re being weird.” “And you’re nesting, with your little house and your dog-child,” she says. “I’m too young to be a grandmother, you know. You’re not allowed to have children until you’re at least twenty-five.” I bury my face in my palms, but I’m spared having to answer by the sound of my phone buzzing on the coffee table. I snatch it up and answer without looking at the caller ID. “Hello?” “Hey,” Travis says quietly. “This is the stupidest fucking question ever, but are you okay?” I make a faint noise of assent. He snorts. “So, that’s a ‘no.’ It’s—the house is clear. The cops just left. You can come home whenever you want.” When I don’t immediately reply, he says, even more quietly, “Please come home. I really need to see you.” “’m fine,” I finally manage to make myself say. “Yeah, well… remember a couple weeks ago, when you said you needed to be able to look over and see that I was safe? I think I kind of need that now. Can you please come home?” “Yeah,” I say, closing my eyes and rubbing my palm over my face. “I’ll be there soon.” “Good,” he says. He pauses, then adds, “And don’t forget to bring back Omelette, you dipshit. It’s so weird not having him in the house. I feel like I’m in a fucking country song about how my ex stole my dog.” That’s enough to earn a faint chuckle from me. “Oh, so he’s your dog now? ‘Cause last I checked, I’m the one who adopted him.” “Maybe, but I let him chew on all my stuff, so he likes me better,” Travis points out. I smile, but don’t say anything. He sighs. “I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?” I hang up, but Mom and Jamie are reluctant to let me leave the city so easily. I don’t know if they’re worried about letting me out of their sight, or if they’re hoping I’ll agree to stay overnight, but they end up forcing me to stay for food, for more conversation, for way too many reassuring hugs. By the time Omelette and I get back to the house, Travis is half-asleep on the couch, waiting for us. He sits up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, and murmurs, “Hey. Took you a while to get back here.” I shrug. “Blame my mom. And James. I just wanted to come home.” “Do you want to talk?” he asks, eyes sharp on mine, even though he’s stifling a yawn. I scratch under the dog’s chin and shake my head. “Kind of over talking, to be honest. Maybe tomorrow, but right now, I just… want to go to bed, if that’s cool?” He doesn’t press the issue, only follows me upstairs and slips an arm around my waist to draw me into a hug just outside my bedroom door. It’s probably supposed to be a way of comforting me before we head to separate rooms, but it goes on, and on, and on. After several minutes, it feels like it would be stupid to pretend that I don’t need him to stay as long and as close as possible. Omelette has already made himself comfortable in my room, but I snap my fingers to get his attention, then lead both of them down the hall to Travis’ room. Travis says nothing, but when I sneak a glance at his face, he looks relieved at not having to be the one to suggest this. We barely manage to make it into the bed before Omelette leaps up with us and sprawls out over the comforter, taking up more space than either of the full-grown men in the bed. “What, seriously?” I say flatly. “This is what you let him do when he sleeps in your room?” Travis huffs and shoves at my shoulder so I’ll turn over and let him curl up against my back. “Shut up. He likes the bed, okay? Just let him live his life, he’s not hurting anyone.” I roll my eyes, but it’s nice, having Travis behind me and our dog curled up next to me. It’s nicer still when Travis sits up and leans over me to plug his iPod into the dock on his nightstand, queuing up some music to help me fall asleep. By twisted coincidence, it’s the same band who sang the first track on the CD from Dave. I like the band, and I like the song, and I don’t want this to turn into another thing I can’t stand because it reminds me of Dave, so I don’t request a song change. I squeeze my eyes shut and wriggle backwards until I’m pressed more firmly to Travis’ front. He kissed the skin just behind my ear; listening is a lot easier after that.

156 days sober Charlie Walczyk is the first person to speak to me at PT the next morning. Or, to be more accurate, Charlie Walczyk is the first person to storm up to me in the commuter parking lot before I can even get to PT. Sam is trying to get his attention to calm him down, but it’s not working at all. Javi, Declan, and Taylor are all watching warily from a few feet away, but I don’t think Charlie even notices them. He gets in my face and snarls, “Are you fucking kidding me, Garen? You called the cops on him again?” I have prepared for this moment. I knew it was coming. I unzip my backpack and extract the black binder, flipping carefully through it and staring Charlie dead in the eyes as I say, “He violated his restraining order. That’s on him, not me. He’s fucking lucky he’s just getting a warning, because he—” “He’s not even in the same state as you are!” Charlie bursts out. “Jesus Christ, man, when are you going to let this go? You guys had a fucked up relationship, and you fought all the time, and I know things ended badly, but you can’t use one bad breakup as justification for ruining my brother’s life.” “You,” I say carefully, “are unbelievably misinformed about what happened between Dave and me. It wasn’t fighting, and it wasn’t a bad breakup. He beat me, and he almost killed me.” “No. That’s not—look, David told me how it happened, okay? He fucking told me everything,” Charlie says. I think he plans to continue, but I finally find the photograph I’ve been looking for, remove it from the binder, and hold it up in front of his face. He takes one look at the picture and reels back, his eyes growing wide behind his glasses. “What the fuck is that?” “That’s my face,” I say, as calmly as I am capable of. “Pretty grody, isn’t it? Honestly, I wish this picture didn’t even exist, but nobody thought to ask me before it was taken, seeing as how I was in a coma at that point.” Charlie’s eyes flicker from the picture to my face and back again several times before he swallows and says, “A coma?” “Yep,” I say. “I was unconscious when Travis found me, and I didn’t wake up until sometime the next day. When I came to, I figured I was fine. They mostly judge concussions by how long you’re out for and how much you remember when you wake up, so I kept telling people I was fine, because I thought I remembered everything that happened. I remembered arguing with Dave, I remembered him shoving me, I even remember the first few punches. Turns out? That’s not really the whole story. No, that—the rest of it came to me in flashes over the next few months. Some asshole at school would bump into me in the hallway, and I’d feel your brother’s fist against my jaw. A guy would get his hands on me in bed, and I’d be convinced I was on the floor, begging your brother not to kill me. Every time I thought I’d pieced it all together, something would go wrong, some door would open, and I’d be wrecked by it.” Charlie doesn’t say anything, but that’s okay, because I don’t know how to shut up. “This isn’t the only picture I have, either. Look—” I open the binder again and start taking out all of the pictures one by one, spreading them out over the hood of my car so that he can see every brutal injury his brother ever left me with. “This, all of this—these are things Dave did. And these ones right here, this top row, these are the things he did to me last spring, when he finally got arrested. He broke my leg, and I had to use a motorized wheelchair for weeks, because he also broke three of my fingers and cracked two of my ribs, so I couldn’t use crutches.” I don’t remember the other guys coming closer, but they must have, at some point, because they’re all gathered around me now, staring down at the pictures in stunned silence. I fold my arms over my chest and grip my own biceps hard enough to hide my trembling. “You’re all wondering what I went to rehab for. You haven’t asked, but I know you’re all curious. Well, it started with the painkillers I was prescribed for these injuries. And then when I ran out of painkillers, I switched to coke and booze, because they were easier to get than more hydrocodone.” I gather up all of the pictures and stuff them back into the binder. That seems to snap Charlie out of it. He says, “Y-You can’t blame him for the fact that you became an addict. That’s not fair. There was already a no-contact order in place long before you hit bottom. You can’t blame him.” “You’re right,” I agree, shoving the binder into my backpack. “I can’t blame him for the fact that I ended up in rehab. But I can blame him for the fact that I have nightmares, and panic attacks, and biweekly therapy sessions, and more fucking scars than I care to count. And I can blame him for the fact that I came home from MLEP last night and found a fucking Valentine’s Day present from him on my porch. No postage. No address. Delivered in person. This was attached to it.” I dig last night’s card out of my backpack and hold it out. Charlie glances at it, but doesn’t take it. “What does it say?” “Oh, you can read it for yourself. I’m sure you’ll recognize his handwriting, too,” I say, forcing the card into his hand. “Now, call me crazy—believe me, plenty of people do, Dave among them—but not many people would want to get a ‘thinking of you’ note from someone who used to beat the shit out of them on the regular.” “He was—” Charlie swallows, rereads the card, and tries again, in a hushed, strangled tone, “He was at your house? Last night?” “Yeah. He was at my house last night,” I say, taking the card back. “So, Charlie. Tell me again how I’m the one who’s ruining his life.” Charlie doesn’t say a single word. I didn’t expect him to.